This week is guaranteed to go by quickly as every day is filled with some sort of literary event, including my own reading on April 15 at Winder Binder/A Novel Idea on the North Shore in Chattanooga.
In honor of a week that’s certain to be as glorious as it is exhausting, I will be posting an excerpt or short work by each author I plan on seeing during the week.
I’m starting with Mr. Bill Brown. Brown will be reading as part of a group of Southern poets at 2 p.m., Sunday April 17, at Winder Binder/A Novel Idea.
Mr. Brown was my creative writing and English teacher for two years at Hume-F0gg High School in Nashville. I have had many teachers and professors who have made it possible for me to be where I am today in my writing, but Mr. Brown was the first to show me what words can really do – not just his, but mine. As I’ve been reconnected with him professionally over the past few years, I’ve been struck by how much his poetry and ways of seeing influenced my own work. Now, for your reading pleasure, two poems by Bill Brown. If you like them, for pete’s sake, buy one of his books. You won’t be disappointed.
What the Night Told Me
The owl and whipporwill know this well
that while the world sleeps, earth
still swings around the sun
the sun in its slow death
swirls a broader arc
and light rushes toward
the red fringe of something
and the moon for which they sing
drags each sea with a whip
Weasel and snake know this well
that rock and limb do not reveal
their shadow in the night
the warm blood of a rat
can be sensed without
the distraction of light
a prey’s shriek is swallowed by darkness
only man clutches his mate
when the talons of owl surprise
the silent rabbit, its scream
does not keep the raccoon
from watching that great horned
drag its soft catch across the sky
Worms and maggots know this well
that rot feeds on darkness
the source of all light
is decay, the cool glow
of foxfire thrives on dead wood
polished bones glare at night
and only reflect
what they cannot keep.
from What the Night Told Me, Copyright 1993, Bucksnort Press
Okay, now one from his latest book The News Inside, which is currently available on amazon.com
The Melting
There should be hope in the leaves’ first turning –
summer green fringed gold and crimson, webbed
hands reaching out against the curtain’s blue.
Winter and what it takes from the heart
is almost worth it. Year by blessed year,
in the shortened days, something is stolen
that cannot be reclaimed – a swelling in the chest
when night comes soon. At a certain age
a man takes a season’s beginnings, the small
beauties – frozen rings on creek rocks,
the first skein of ice in the horse trough.
He holds it to the morning sun and it burns
his palm as it drips through his fingers.
Each year he grips it tighter
to see his face melt in the fire.
from The News Inside, Copyright 2010, Iris Press
Erin E. Tocknell 